


Shapes

by AggressivelyBisexual



Series: Trans Daryl Dixon [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Coming Out, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Sickfic, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13396086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressivelyBisexual/pseuds/AggressivelyBisexual
Summary: There was this shadow that always hung over his horizon, that he had walked under since the day he was born, this loud, guttural conviction that good things never last. This constant in Daryl's life, that for a while was hovering a bit out of reach, had come back to beat down on him with bruised knuckles and split lips. This foreboding gut feeling was going to kick the door down and take Paul down with it.





	Shapes

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place about a week after Finding Warmth. 
> 
> Yes, I'm posting this after New Year's. Yes, I was as sick as Daryl over that weekend. Yes, I have too many excuses.

**Sunday 9:49 am**

_Paul: Hey love. Looking forward to ringing in the new year with you :)_

 

**Sunday 3:11 pm**

_Paul: What time did you want me to pick you up?_

 

**Sunday 5:56 pm**

**Missed Call**

 

**Sunday 6:23 pm**

_Daryl: Sorry I got sick_

_Paul: Are you ok?_

_Daryl: Ya just throwing up a lot_

_Paul: Can I come over? Bring you anything?_

_Daryl: No it’s ok_

_Paul: Too bad_

 

 

Daryl would roll his eyes, but he didn’t have enough energy to feel much of anything.

He was still sitting on the floor of the bathroom, resting against the wall after having just finished dry heaving nothing but spit, when a loud knock tapped the front door. Daryl took a few deep breaths before he braced his hands against the toilet to push himself up to standing. Numb legs holding up a body that felt too heavy, he struggled to walk across the apartment without stumbling.

Daryl opened the door to creased eyebrows and wide, concerned eyes.

“Hey,” his voice croaked, and Paul walked in to set a grocery bag on the kitchen counter. He turned back, stepping up close to Daryl to shut the door that he hadn’t even noticed was still open.

“You look like shit,” Paul said with a sad smile, as he raised his hand up to Daryl’s face.

Daryl huffed a silent chuckle, but turned away from Paul’s hand before it could touch him, “Might be contagious.”

Paul brought up both hands to frame his face, “I promise not to kiss you.”

Daryl felt his lips twitch down, almost in the faintest direction of a pout, before he realized what he was doing. He might have felt embarrassed if exhaustion wasn’t clouding his brain, his head swimming and detached.

Paul’s cool palms soothed his clammy skin, one settled on his forehead and the other on the back of his neck. “You feel really warm,” he said.

Daryl just closed his eyes, no response coming to mind.

“When was the last time you ate?” Paul asked.

“Uh,” Daryl’s hoarse voice cracked into a whisper, “Yesterday breakfast, I think.”

Paul’s eyebrows furrowed deeper, “What about water?”

“Can’t keep any down. Just sip a tiny after throwin’ up.”

Paul opened his mouth to continue, but stopped when Daryl swayed on his feet, hands gripping his shoulders to stabilize him.

“Let’s go to your room, okay?”

Leaning heavily into Paul’s hold, Daryl found it easier to walk. He wanted to try convincing Paul to leave, didn’t want to be a burden, making Paul play nurse when he could take care of himself. But, no words came to Daryl’s lips.

Paul helped Daryl settle into his bed, looking concerned, “I’m worried about how dehydrated you are. Do you think you can try some gatorade?”

Daryl just shrugged, half-lidded stare taking Paul in, thoughts lost in those bambi eyes that shone so brightly in the dark room. He found himself wondering how he got so lucky to have tricked Paul into caring about someone like him. Paul, who dropped all of his plans just to come over and help Daryl, who always touched him and held him with such ease and quiet patience, who could go toe to toe with Daryl any day of the week and yet always knew when to stay calm..

Paul sighed, breaking Daryl's lingering silence, as he sat down next to him and leaned against Daryl's hip. His hands reached out to brush Daryl’s lank hair out of his face.

“Stop,” Daryl grumbled, “’m gross.”

“I don’t care.”

Daryl dropped his pretense of trying to resist. His body physically ached, stomach completely purged empty as it still continued to roll with pangs. The warmth of his fever hovered over his skin, trapping the clammy ice underneath that stuck to his fingers and toes. With thirst sticky and tacky in the back of his throat, Daryl wanted nothing more than just a couple sips of water that would actually stay down.

If he was contagious, Paul was definitely going to catch it.

"You shouldn't'a come over," Daryl said.

He could hear Paul's eyeroll without having to look. "And why's that?" Paul asked.

"It's new year's, y'all had plans," Daryl said.

" _We_ had plans," Paul corrected, voice exasperated, "We were going over there together. Why would I want to go without you?"

Daryl stared, unable to come up with an answer.

"I'm just going to pretend and assume that you're too sick to think, right now," Paul said.

Daryl sighed and his head thumped back onto the pillow behind him.

"No more arguments or fake protests?" Paul asked, "Shit, do I need to take you to the ER?"

Daryl raised his middle finger without opening his eyes. But a sudden bite down on it made him jump, and he looked up to see Paul's smirk above him.

"Go away," Daryl said.

"Yeah, sure, because that's what you really want."

"It is," Daryl tried to put some feeling into it.

"Liar," Paul laughed at him.

With a groan, Daryl rolled over and shoved his face into the side of Paul's thigh that had been resting against him. This was too easy, everything was too uncomplicated with him.

All of the outermost layers that Daryl held around himself were long stripped away, completely fallen off from sheer exhaustion. His heart felt like an exposed nerve, painfully contracting and trying to shy away from Paul's teasing and laughter. There was this shadow that always hung over his horizon, that he had walked under since the day he was born, this loud, guttural conviction that good things never last. This constant in Daryl's life, that for a while was hovering a bit out of reach, had come back to beat down on him with bruised knuckles and split lips. This foreboding gut feeling was going to kick the door down and take Paul down with it.

"I was serious about the gatorade," Paul's voice slowly filtered in.

Daryl had to physically shake himself to remember where he was and why Paul was still there. Distantly realizing that the lack of food and water for almost two days was probably making him a little crazy, he could see Paul studying his face and he wondered what it showed.

"Do you need to throw up again?"

"Nah, just don't feel good," Daryl said.

Paul huffed a silent laugh while shaking his head, like he wanted to roll his eyes again but was refraining from it.

"I'll be right back, don't go anywhere," Paul teased.

Daryl closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Paul was sitting next to him in the same spot. The only indication that he had moved at all was the glass of watered down gatorade he held in one hand, and the glass of ice chips held in the other.

"Great," Daryl grunted, "I'm a fucking invalid."

"Shut up and pick one," Paul said.

Daryl gave him a baleful stare and took the glass of ice chips, just the simple condensation on the outside of it making his painfully parched throat more noticeable than before.

When Paul leaned over to set the other cup on the nightstand, he snuck in a quick kiss to the top of Daryl's head.

"If I could feed you, I would," the warmth in his voice matched the faintly rising blush in Daryl's cheeks.

After Daryl swallowed some of the ice, letting the chips sit on the back of the tongue and relishing the cool moisture, Paul plucked the glass out of his hand and replaced it with the gatorade.

"I know I let you choose, but you're actually going to try both," he said, "You really need the sugar, Daryl."

"You're lucky I'm tired."

Daryl expected Paul to give his usual snark in return. Instead, he reached a hand out and combed through the side of Daryl's greasy hair, cupping the back of his head and running his thumb back and forth across Daryl's temple. He hadn't even noticed the aching tension in his skull until Paul was gently trying to give him a reprieve from it. Daryl leaned further into him, trying to thank him and praying Paul could feel it.

After a stretch of warm, soft silence, Daryl reluctantly pulled back, “Still feel like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack."

Paul smiled, “Yeah and you smell like it, too.”

“Shut up,” Daryl mumbled, trying not to chuckle as he put his hand over Paul’s face, pushing him away.

“Here, you should take a bath and I'll heat up some chicken broth while you’re in there,” Paul said. The queasiness must have shown on Daryl’s face. Paul continued, “Just a little bit, please?”

“Yeah, okay,” Daryl said quietly, “This is a lot of trouble you're going to.”

Paul leaned in and kissed Daryl’s cheek, high in the soft hollow under his eyelid, lashes tickling his own, “It’s no trouble.”

As he stood up, Paul’s hand gently trailed from the back of Daryl’s head to his shoulder, down the length of his arm, pausing to squeeze the ends of his fingers. Daryl watched him walk away, and tried to pull himself together.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Daryl got up and unplugged the drain in the tub, he realized that he hadn’t brought a change of clothes into the bathroom with him. He stood there, goosebumps breaking out his skin as he shivered and dripped water onto the bathmat. Daryl had been thinking about the end of everything since Paul had arrived earlier, because what was always a nebulous thought stuck on the back-burner had been brought to the front when he was heaving into the toilet all night, defenses weak and thoughts swirling with nowhere to go.

For hours, Daryl had just sat in the bathroom and stared at the frayed lines on his boxers, the circular scars on his hands, the square cabinets that held triangular pills and straight needles. Simple shapes. Children’s blocks that were knocked down over and over.

He hadn’t known when or how to tell Paul he was trans, wishing he could have gone forever hiding and avoiding it.

Eventually, Paul would want to move past simply kissing and the occasional making out, mostly sitting down or leaning across the center console in Paul’s car. Rarely stretched out on the couch, never allowing Paul to lay on top of him, never risking the chance that Paul would notice there was something missing in the space between their bodies, when Daryl hated wearing his packer. He knew there would be a point where Paul would become curious, or worse, impatient. He stood there, feet rooted to the floor beneath him and stared at the hanging towels, wondering if it was better to show Paul now, rather than waiting for his questions.

Daryl wasn’t sure how much time he’d have left if he didn’t make the choice tonight.  

With a racing heart and trembling fingers, Daryl wrapped a towel around his waist, leaving his torso and the scars, on both his front and back, vulnerably bare. He took a deep breath, readying himself to open the door, when his stomach lurched and abruptly reminded him that he was still sick underneath all of the distractions in his mind. Dropping down onto his knees, Daryl gasped and gagged the couple of gatorade sips that Paul had convinced him to try. The tears that leaked out of his eyes almost a little too real. Daryl steeled himself, stood up, washed his mouth out, and left the bathroom with hands clenched onto the towel around him.

Paul turned off the burner on the stove and started talking before he turned around, “Hey, I heard you throwing up. Are you…” he trailed off when his eyes landed on Daryl.

Daryl pulled the corner of his lip into his mouth, teeth biting down hard, waiting.

“Daryl,” Paul whispered as he stepped closer, reaching a hand out towards Daryl’s chest, and jerked to a stop at his flinch.

His eyes stayed connected with Daryl’s as he moved the slightest bit closer, worry radiating from the creases between his eyebrows. The hand that still hovered in front of Daryl’s chest moved up to cup his cheek. He tilted Daryl’s head down, raising his own to press their foreheads together. Daryl’s shaky breath ghosted between them.

“I love you,” Paul said.

“How?” Daryl asked.

He didn’t flinch or shift away when Paul silently pulled back and moved his hand down to Daryl’s pec. Paul’s fingers gently brushed over the raised, gnarled scar underneath one side of his chest, and then the other.

“Did it hurt?” Paul asked quietly.

“Kinda,” Daryl’s said, voice rasping.

Paul shifted closer again, tilting his head down to rest in the hollow of Daryl’s collarbones. Both of his hands continued to slowly skim across the surface of his scars, each small caress easing the clenching in his chest, bit by bit. Then, Paul smoothed his touch around his ribs to his back, pulling him closer to a hug. Daryl felt it the second Paul’s fingers touched more scar tissue, and he grew tense all over again.

“Can I?” Paul asked as he already started moving around to look at his back, and Daryl’s head lowered, just waiting.

A shaky inhale behind him broke the silence in the apartment.

Daryl almost jumped when he felt the press of lips on his skin. They moved up the length of one lash and down the marred surface of another. Less than a kiss and more of a benediction.

Pausing his touch on the inked demons, Paul moved back around in front of Daryl, causing him to open eyes that he hadn’t noticed were closed.

“You are the strongest man I have ever known,” Paul whispered.

Daryl’s head dropped down onto Paul’s shoulder, shaky arms wrapping tightly around him. They held each other close, unbudging and uncaring for Daryl’s still wet hair dampening Paul’s shirt, or the cold floor beneath their feet, or Daryl’s tired and weakened swaying.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the side of Paul’s neck.

“Me too,” Paul said

Daryl kissed him, sudden and strong, forehead pressed against his. Paul’s hands held his face, pulling him in closer and closer still, held him tightly from head to toe.

The sudden crack of fireworks outside the building rocked through their bodies. But, Daryl didn’t sway and Paul didn’t waver as the window behind them lit up with quick flashes of color, light bathing the scars on his back, Paul a balm to the scars on his chest. The space in between their bodies fell, soft, painless, shapeless.

 

**Author's Note:**

> While I do not have personal experience with fully transitioning ftm, I am a trans author. Experiencing and understanding Daryl Dixon as a trans man is something that is real and important to me. Thank you for reading - 
> 
> ♡ Holiday Bingo Prompt: New Year's Eve ♡
> 
> [tumblr](http://captainameriqueer.tumblr.com) :)


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